


Suddenly I'm Falling For (The Buff Guy In 304)

by Lasenby_Heathcote



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Drunken Kissing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Human Disaster Clint Barton, M/M, Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings, Musician Bucky Barnes, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Pining, Wardrobe malfunctions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 12:20:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12983949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasenby_Heathcote/pseuds/Lasenby_Heathcote
Summary: Ok, this looks bad.I didn’t mean to spy on them - I mean, Iwasn’tspying!(please don’t tell Natasha)I was just hanging out on my shitty little balcony trying to get some air (because the heat was blasting in the building, AGAIN), and I could hear a bit of music and I just liked hearing him sing, you know? So I was just there listening and then I could hear them talking on their balcony…Ididn’tmean to spy on them.And I sure as hell didn’t mean tofallon them.Ok, yeah, this looks bad.Clint Barton hasnotgot a crush on Bucky, the buff guy in 304. And when Bucky needs a fake boyfriend for a night, Clint can totally handle that, right?Right?





	Suddenly I'm Falling For (The Buff Guy In 304)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the WinterHawk Reverse Big Bang, inspired by the incredible art of 8ami

 

 

 

_Ok, this looks bad._

_I didn’t mean to spy on them - I mean, I_ **_wasn’t_ ** _spying!_

_(please don’t tell Natasha)_

_I was just hanging out on my shitty little balcony trying to get some air (because the heat was blasting in the building, AGAIN), and I could hear a bit of music and I just liked hearing him sing, you know? So I was just there listening and then I could hear them talking on their balcony…_

_I_ **_didn’t_  ** _mean to spy on them._

 _And I sure as hell didn’t mean to_ **_fall_ ** _on them._

_Ok, yeah, this looks bad._

**…….**

 

Clint trudged his way in, leaning wearily on wall as he fiddled with the latch on his mailbox. The door didn’t want to open properly and he sighed. Some flier or envelope had been folded over roughly and was jamming the door from swinging open, and Clint did not have the wherewithal to deal with it gently. He pulled at the door, tearing the edge of the offending envelope, letting several others fall to the floor. _Aww, no._

And of course, the damn thing wasn’t even for him. It was for 304. He wondered if Natasha had taken over the job as the mailman for his building because whenever he got someone else’s mail it was 304’s. And she was definitely the type to orchestrate a reason for him to talk to the buff guy in 304. _Damn it_ , he thought as he looked down at the envelope in his hand. _Now he was going to have to talk to the buff guy in 304._

Clint did _not_ have a crush on the buff guy in 304. Crushes were for school girls who didn’t know any better and for people who didn’t have a life. Clint was not a schoolgirl and he most certainly did have a life, _thank you very much!_ He had a _job_ and a _bike_ and _friends_ and _interests_ . Ok, so his job was at Target and his bike was in the shop at the moment (until he could pay for repairs) and he had _one_ person he hung out with and his interests involved sharp things and bullseyes, but they were _things._ You know, things that people with lives had. Therefore, he, Clinton Francis Barton, of the New Jersey Barton’s, _had a life._ Which meant that he _did not_ have a _crush._

And besides, the buff guy in 304 clearly wasn’t home anyway. Clint had knocked twice already and there was no answer. He turned to leave, releasing the breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding, when the door swung open. And there was the buff guy in 304, _in the buff!_ Clint’s brain screamed, conveniently missing the towel wrapped around his waist and the hand towel he was drying his shoulder length hair with. Clint’s traitorous brain however, did _not_ miss the water dripping from said hair, onto said buff shoulders, and down said buff chest.

 _I do not have a crush._ Clint protested weakly.

“Hey.” 304 said, flashing a toothy smile which, combined with the unexpected display of his buffness, short-circuited Clint’s brain-to-mouth operation and he gaped for a moment before he brain rebooted enough to realise he had to say hi back.

“Hey! Ahh, this was in my slot. My box. My mail box.” Clint waved the dented envelope like a rapier as he yammered, stopping when he almost stabbed his half naked neighbour in the chest with it.

“Again? I swear Mr Lee is half blind. Thanks, man.” he smiled, taking the envelope and reading the return address, his eyes lighting up.  

“Something good?” Clint asked before he could help himself.

“That’s what I’m hoping.” The guy nodded in response, and Clint knew he should leave the guy to read his obviously important letter (and, you know, _get dressed_ ), but Clint’s higher brain wasn’t wholly online and his id ached for more attention.

“You gonna be at the barbeque?”  Clint asked, prolonging the conversation.

The buff guy in 304 looked up in surprise. “Oh! I haven’t read the board in a couple of days, did Rogers reschedule?”

“Yeah, I saw it just now, apparently the dodgy lock has been fixed and we’ve got rooftop access again. Barbeque is this Saturday.” Clint recounted what he’d read from the brand new flier.

The rooftop barbeque had been a semi-regular event in the building, but the last one several month prior had gone awry when the access door with the temperamental lock was abandoned by the tenant who was meant to ensure it didn’t close behind them, and everyone got stranded on the roof. It was also the day that they learnt that the rickety fire escape didn’t reach all the way up the building, and Clint had offered to risk his neck to climb down to the nearest open window to get back inside and reopen the door for them. The buff guy in 304 (who Clint had barely said boo to before then) along with Steve Rogers, the patient guy who organised the barbeques and fielded everyone’s complaints about the place, helped lower him down as far as they could and Clint’s childhood gymnastic lessons got him the rest of the way. The result of that day was that the rooftop was off-limits until the lock was replaced, and Clint walked away with an even bigger crush on Bucky, who he’d only ever known until then as the buff guy in 304. _Not a crush!_ Clint reminded himself.

“Oh that’s awesome. I’ve been missing hanging out with everyone. Count me in.” Bucky flashed another smile and this time Clint didn’t stop him from waving goodbye, sagging a little when the door closed and Clint was left alone to try and decide what to do with the freshly imprinted mental image of Bucky in a towel.

 _I may not have a crush_ , Clint whined to himself and the empty hallway, _but I am completely gone on the guy. Fuck me._

….

 

Clint was sitting out on the balcony, trying not to lean too hard on the railing, but still avoiding the weak spot in the floor. He’d put a repair request in ages ago after nearly putting his foot through the frame, but he’d been left with no estimated time of repair, only the instruction to stay off it. But however crappy it was, having your own tiny balcony was one of the only perks of this shitty building and Clint would perch out there with his coffee whenever he pleased, like today. He only had one hearing aid in and was taking in the sounds of the city as it funneled up the alleyway, but he prefered it this way for the times when he would hear Bucky singing from his apartment below.

But it did mean that he didn’t hear Natasha come in until she was right beside him. She smacked him on the arm, dumped a bag in his lap and flopped down onto the couch.

“Yo.”

“Yo, back.” Clint replied, rummaging through the bag, pulling out the dvd from under the bags of popcorn. “What’s The Last Castle about in 5 words or less?”

“Robert Redford, military prison coup.” Natasha counted them off on her fingers. “What are you working this weekend?” she asked as he got up to turn on the TV. Clint knew Natasha from working together at Target, but she’d since absconded to classier employment as a bank teller.

“Just Saturday, open to 3. I’m _not_ going to be talked into staying longer. We’ve finally got the roof back in time for barbeque season. You coming to this one?”

Natasha ripped open a bag of popcorn and grabbed the first handful.  “I wouldn’t miss a second of you awkwardly pining over your hot guy.”

Clint turned and gave her a _look_ which was supposed to say _Don’t go there, ok?_ But apparently she read it as _I’m pathetic and obsessed with him, please torture me further_ because of course, Natasha being Natasha that was exactly what she did, shutting up only for Robert Redford’s voice-over.

….

 

Clint took the stairs two at a time. Damn manager conned him into staying late by taking off for her break and not telling him when she’s returned and just left him manning the register for an extra hour.

The open door with the shiny new lock heralded the entry to the rooftop, and the smell of hot onions and meat wafted through the air, cutting the usual smell of exhaust and urine and rust that the exterior of the building typically smelled like. Clint knew he should find Natasha first, especially before she got bored waiting for him and possibly talked to Bucky on his behalf, but the barbeque smelled too damn good and he followed his nose (and stomach) towards it.

Rogers, the tall guy in blue flannel and red apron who always kept the noticeboards up to date and organised anything that happened in the building was standing next to the barbeque, turning sausages with a pair of tongs.

“Barton! Just in time, these are ready to eat. Grab yourself a plate.”

“Ha ha!” Clint exclaimed, snatching a sausage with each hand, shoving one straight into his mouth and passing the other back and forth between his burning fingers.

“Fhanks.” Clint said, mouth full and burning with hot meat and he dodged to the other side of Steve to grab a couple of hotdog buns, stuffing the sausages into them and reaching for the sauces. Rogers shook his head, chuckling at the pantomime going on at his side.

“Onions?” he offered.

“Mmm hmm.” Clint confirmed, licking his scalded lips and holding out the buns, nodding until they were loaded high and threatening to spill onto his shoes. Clint turned back to the table and carefully prodded a long slice of pickle down the side of each sausage, and once satisfied that the buns were crammed with sizzling, salty, heart-clogging goodness, opened his mouth, practically unhinging his jaw and bit the first bun in half. He patted Steve on the shoulder, hunger addressed and turned to his next mission, finding Natasha but she found him first.

“Wow, you’re gorgeous deep throating like that. Must drive all the guys wild.” Natasha’s voice purred with sarcasm as she wandered over. Clint tried pulling a face but most of his facial muscles were busy helping him chew and he huffed out a snort of steam from his nose. After swallowing his mouthful and nudging Natasha to a spot where they could lean, he eyed his friend critically.

“Why are you here early? I texted to say I was running late.”

She shrugged a shoulder in an act of casual innocence but the smirk at the corner of her lips contradicted it. “Surveillance.” she said simply, taking a sip from a solo cup that matched her lipstick.

 _Oh, shit that’s not good_. “Natasha!” he scolded, trying to surreptitiously glance around the rooftop to see if Bucky was even there. He caught sight of him the other side of Rogers and the barbeque but looked away before catching his eye.

“I only want to help you ask the hot guy out.” she replied, louder than before and Clint definitely noticed a head or two turn in their direction.

“ _Quiet!_ ” Clint hissed, quickly looking back towards the barbeque, hoping that Bucky hadn’t heard her too. But, naturally, in the franticness of his turn, Clint smacked his elbow against the ledge behind him, knocking the full hotdog from his hand and onions, mustard, ketchup, sausage, pickle, bun and all spilled down the front of his pants. _Aww, no!_

“Shit!” he yelled, jumping to grab a handful of napkins from the food table and scrape the mess from off his pants and shoes and into the bin that Steve pushed towards him. He was definitely the centre of attention now. _Fuck_. With the remnants of his dinner in the trash and mustard streaks down his legs, Clint still waited for the hubbub to die down a bit before looking up and returning the bin to where it had been.

“Sorry about that.” he mumbled, keeping his eyes looking at Rogers and not the buff silhouette hovering nearby, and with a sigh, headed for the access door and down to his apartment, Natasha shadowing him silently down the stairs.

_Way to go, Barton._

….

 

The day after the barbeque Clint sat at the door of his balcony, listening to the music strumming up from 304. Bucky always seemed to play with his balcony doors open and it was Clint’s favourite part of any day when he managed to catch a snippet of Bucky singing. Clint always woke up to muted silence and lived the rest of the time with every single sound amplified, sometimes uncomfortably so, by his hearing aids, but it was things like this that made the discomfort worth it. He went to take a sip of his coffee, only to find it empty and he lowered it again as Bucky started up a new tune and he strained to make out the words. Because while Bucky the buff guy in 304 might have a great voice, he had the weirdest song choices, and it was another odd, boppy ditty and Clint swore he could hear the words _auto insurance_ in there somewhere. Maybe he’d get the chance to ask the guy about it at the next barbeque, and Clint mentally kicked himself for not having the guts (or the opportunity) to talk to him the night before.

…..

 

This building was the worst, Clint bitched in his head. The elevator didn’t work, the basement smelled like death, the fire escape was rusting apart and so many other things (like the mail never getting where it was supposed to), but today it was the heat. After a lengthy tennant campaign lead by the unflappable Mr Rogers last winter, the heat had finally been turned up from frostbitten to lukewarm, but had somehow not been turned down as the weather got warmer but instead turned up, and now it was so bad that Clint was considering renting his apartment out as a sauna for a little extra cash.

He slouched against the wall and picked at his work shirt, peeling it from his skin and flapping it in an attempt to create a breeze. It wasn’t helping. He sighed and pushed open the door to his shitty little balcony and there was a meagre enough amount of air coming through that he abandoned his newly made coffee to stay outside. It was so hot he swore he could feel his ears sweating and he pulled out his hearing aids and wiped them on the driest part of his shirt. The world dulled around him for a moment until he nudged the plastic into his ears one at a time and suddenly picked up voices from directly below. Bucky. And a woman.

Clint leaned over the railing, curiosity getting the better of him as he wondered who was the woman Bucky was entertaining, because if he wasn’t mistaken, from what he could hear, she was _definitely_ flirting. And hard. Now, Clint knew that Bucky only liked guys, (and hadn’t that been a fun discovery that Natasha wouldn’t shut up about), but he still was overcome by a pang of jealousy when he heard the strum of Bucky’s guitar. _He was_ **_playing_ ** _for her!? Who is she?_ It was the boppy ditty that Clint heard the other day, and yep, it was definitely about auto insurance, and Clint was amazed when the woman clapped her hands in delight when the song had finished.

“Oh! They’ll love it! It’s going to be so great having you on the team!.”

Clint heard an unconvincing laugh from Bucky, who had put down the guitar and edged towards the balcony below, leaving Clint with an awkward birds-eye view between the wire frame through his feet. From Clint’s precarious vantage point he saw the woman sweep her arms around Bucky’s neck, and in the surprise of seeing the oh-so-very private looking moment play out, Clint felt suddenly ashamed and moved to step inside, not really looking where he put his feet.

 

And, yeah. So this is where the balcony collapsed.

 

Clint looked up, dazed, with a shooting pain running up his arm and side and saw the hole in the balcony above him, the collapsed wire frame swinging wildly. A groan sounded from under him that he was pretty sure he didn’t utter and he realised the reason he had landed so awkwardly (other than his own natural awkwardness) was because he’d landed _on_ somebody. A somebody who was buff and lived in 304. _Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck_. Clint tried scrambling off Bucky, but his arm was trapped beneath the other man’s muscular torso and he twisted only to faceplant back onto his neighbour. Bucky lifted his head and looked at him, bewildered.

“Clint? That you?”

Clint huffed in surprise, finally pulling his arm free and propping himself up.

“Yeah, you know, just thought I’d drop by.” _Oh, wow, did I really just fucking say that?_

Bucky blinked a couple of times before snorting a laugh, which once uttered, broke the tension on the situation and both Clint and Bucky cracked up. Seeing Bucky laugh was worth the awful kink in Clint’s neck and back, and he was about to apologise for crashing in so literally when their laughter was interrupted by Bucky’s guest.

“Who are you!?”

The young woman, who they had both forgotten was even there, evidently had better reflexes than either of them did and had managed to jump clear of the disaster before it happened, but was now standing in the general safety of Bucky’s living room, gaping at the pair of laughing idiots. Clint clamoured to his feet and offered a hand to pull Bucky up, and tried to think of what to tell her, but took too long and she turned to Bucky and repeated the question. “Who is _he_!?”

“He’s… my boyfriend.” Bucky said quickly, eyes darting in Clint’s direction and back again.

“He’s your what?” She whispered, shock melting to mortification as Clint caught up to what has just been said.

 _I’m his what!?_ A noise squeaked from the back of Clint’s throat and Bucky turned to him, eyes wide, mouthing _please?_

“I’m his, yeah, uh, boyfriend.” Clint nodded, trying his best to be convincing and swallow down his bewildered elation at the same time. He side stepped towards Bucky and put on a fake smile, in an awkward attempt to act the part without pushing it, and Bucky met his deception by sliding his buff arm around Clint’s waist. Clint did his best not to squeal again.  

“And what was he doing out there?”

“Oh! He actually lives upstairs, but likes to climb down the railing rather than use the stairs. He’s a great climber, he once climbed down the side of the building when we were all locked on the roof.” Bucky said smoothly, and Clint was fucking impressed at how well he pulled that out of the air. Clint waved, trying to keep up the ruse that he still wasn’t sure why they were playing, but he didn’t get too far thinking about it when a CLANG echoed behind them. When they turned they saw that another piece of the frame from Clint’s balcony had dropped on Bucky’s, right about where they had been lying a minute ago.

“We should probably call the superintendent about that.” Clint pointed out and Bucky nodded.

“Oh, uh, I should let you do… that.” The woman stammered, brushing her hair loose strands of hair back to it’s main braid. “I’ll get you that contract in the mail, Mr Barnes. I’m, uh, just going to… go.” And she snatched up a black leather satchel and bolted for the door. Bucky made an aborted move to follow her, but once the door closed behind her, he let out a big sigh of relief and looked back at Clint sheepishly.

“I guess I owe you an explanation for all that.”

Clint opened his mouth to speak and then just closed it again. _I fell on you and_ **_you_ ** _want to explain? Ok, sure. Today can’t get any weirder._ “I guess?”

“Beer?” Bucky offered, and the sound of another piece of metal falling reminded Clint’s body of its own descent and suddenly he seemed to feel every ache imaginable. Beer sounded great.

“Fuck, yes." 

……...

 

“You fell on him, he fake-called you his boyfriend and you _still_ don’t think you have a chance with the guy?” Natasha summarised from Clint’s kitchen as she leaned on the fridge and waited for him to throw his last dart. Clint flung it through the air and it bounced off the wrong side of the centre ring of wire and he groaned in frustration as Natasha cheered. He rubbed at his bruised shoulder then pulled his darts from the board and they swapped places.

“She was coming on too strong and he wanted to let her down easy without jeopardizing a job prospect, that’s all. She was meant to be interviewing him for a contract with a radio corporation. He writes _radio jingles._ Did I tell you that bit?”

“Explains the weird songs.” she said as her last dart sailed smoothly through the air.

“Yeah.” Clint agreed, stepping up to stare down the board.

“So why do you think your chances are ruined?” She asked between throws, and Clint turned to stare at her.

“Did you hear the bit where I _fell on him_?”

She just stared back. “You fell for him ages ago. What’s new?”

Clint rolled his eyes and groaned. “Why are we friends again?”

……..

 

BANG BANG BANG

 _What the hell?_ Clint thought from the bathroom where he’d been checking the state of his bruises in the mirror. It had been a week since the fall through his balcony and they were starting to fade. The bang sounded again and he realised it was someone at the door. He pulled on his ratty bathrobe, grabbing one hearing aid from the dish by the sink and legged it to the door. The hearing aid squealed in his ear as he pushed it in and in the hallway stood Bucky, looking buff as ever in a grey henley and leather jacket, but a frown of concern marring his handsome face.

“I need your help.” He said, not waiting for pleasantries.

_My help? Me?_

“I’m yours.” Clint blurted out, before the words caught up with his mental filter. “ I mean, what for?”

“They’ve offered me the contract.” Bucky said, running his hands through his hair. Clint was mesmerised by the motion for a moment and then remembered about the radio station job that Bucky had been so keen to get.

“Great! And… me? Where does needing me come in?”

“They’ve offered me the contract and they’ve invited me to the company gala next Friday.”

“Awesome! Still not sure on the _“me_ ” part…”

“They’ve invited me, and my boyfriend.” He finished, putting the stress on the last word. _When did he get a boyfriend?_ Clint panicked before his brain realised that Bucky doesn’t have a real boyfriend, only a fake one.

“Oh. Wait… _me_?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah, apparently Lorraine told them all about me having a boyfriend who they decided they wanted to invite too! So I was wondering…” he took a breath, tucking his hair behind his ear, then looking straight at Clint.

“Is there any chance you might pretend to be my boyfriend for a night so that I don’t make an ass out of myself in front of my new boss?”

_Of course there was a chance he’d help. Of course. There was no question about it._

“Yeah, sure.” Clint said, as easily as if he was agreeing to hold the guy’s place in line. _Not like he’d just agreed to pretend to be his crush’s boyfriend for a night and go on a proper fake-date._

“You will?” Bucky sighed in relief, a smile lighting up the entirety of his rugged face. _For that smile, I’d do anything,_ Clint thought.

“Sure, man. No problem at all.”

Clint admitted that he had to get ready for work, so Bucky profusely thanked him again and they exchanged numbers, even offering to lend Clint one of his suits to wear and promised to text him before Friday to discuss everything. Clint watched as the leather jacket disappeared down the hall, before hurrying inside and grabbing his cleanest uniform from his wardrobe, wondering if he should even tell Natasha about this or save himself the inevitable torment of her glee.

Of course he did tell her, and of course Natasha had a field day with the news, foregoing their regular movie viewing that night to rib him on the details, from wondering just how much a relationship they were planning to fake, to laughing at the idea of Clint borrowing one of Bucky’s suits.

“Well, that’s one way of getting in his pants.” she jibed and Clint considered if it would be an insult to the food gods if he were to empty his bag of caramel popcorn into her hair.

…...

 

“We’ll need to act like a couple. You know, holding hands, hugging …”

“General PDA.” Clint filled in, nodding along to the idea. Bucky had texted him to come over and try on a suit and luckily he had a grey one that didn’t look too baggy on Clint’s smaller frame, so now they were having a beer and trying to sort out a game plan for the gala. _OMG, so I’m actually gonna hug the guy, muscle against muscle, junk against junk!? Oh fuck, be cool._

“Yep, so we should probably make sure we don’t look awkward doing that.”

“You want us to practise in front a mirror?” Clint pulled himself from his internal celebration and tried to comprehend how they would even know it if looked natural or not. Bucky laughed.

“Well, we don’t have to quite do it like that! We also should have the same backstory, how we met, who asked who out, first date, yadda yadda.” Bucky said, taking a drink.

“I’m so glad I’m not the only person in this relationship that says “yadda yadda”.” Clint joked, causing Bucky to snort into his beer bottle. They had such an easy rapport that it amazed Clint that they hadn’t been friends for longer.

For their backstory, they stuck close to the truth, that they lived in the same building and met at a rooftop party, only making up that Italian at Gorgiano’s was their first date and that they’d been dating almost 6 months. They agreed to wing the rest, figuring that they wouldn’t be far from each other during the gala itself.

Bucky clinked his bottle with Clint’s to seal the deal. “That’s probably as much as we need, right? They’ll only know you for the night.”

“Yeah,” Clint’s gut twisted at the reminder that this was not only temporary but fake, and he put down his beer and shook himself, taking a dramatic open-armed pose to cover the feeling. “So are we gonna do this or what?”

Bucky took a mouthful of beer and eyed Clint calmly. “PDA practise time?”

“PDA practise time.” Clint confirmed, stepping forward, but waiting for Bucky to put down his bottle and move towards him before closing in for the hug. _Might as well get the big one out of the way_ , Clint thought as his arms closed around Bucky, but the other man seemed to have different ideas. Bucky’s hands, instead of looping around Clint’s back like he was expecting, came up to cradle his face and Clint’s mouth fell open just in time to be met by Bucky’s lips, _and holy crap Bucky was_ **_kissing_ ** _him!_

Clint froze at the realisation and Bucky’s lips went still and he broke off and the two of them stared at each other, trying to figure if or what had just gone wrong.

“And this is the kind of awkwardness we’re wanting to avoid.” Clint groaned, addressing the elephant and mentally kicking himself. _What the hell, Barton!? Why didn’t you kiss him back??_

“Sorry, I shoulda warned you-” Bucky went to step back, looking mortified and Clint couldn’t bear it if he’d made Bucky feel that bad so he held Bucky by the shoulders to keep him there.

“Do it again.”

Bucky frowned. “Are you sure?”

“It’s why we’re practising, right? I wanna help you out. Do it again?”

Bucky’s look softened but he still didn’t look convinced. _Idiot, Barton! You’ve gone and scared him off! Do something!_ Clint released his shoulders, not wanting Bucky to feel trapped, and clasped his hands behind his back. Leaning forward, he looked at Bucky with the widest eyes possible, batted his eyelashes a couple of times then screwed up his face, puckering his lips forward as comically as he could manage. Clint could feel his heart pounding in his ears as he waited the agonising couple of seconds before he heard a snort of laughter and felt a hand smoosh his kissy face as Bucky pushed him back. Clint opened his eyes, elated to see Bucky smiling again, a hand covering his mouth to hold back his laughter.

“What?” He asked, feigning ignorance but couldn’t keep the ruse for long before he was laughing too, and the two of them collapsed on each other, succumbing to the giggles.

“I don’t - think - that’ll convince  - them.” Bucky panted, gasping for breath and holding his knees. Clint was leaning on his shoulder and shrugged, barking out another laugh.

“Well then show me how it’s really done, smart-ass.”

Bucky pulled himself up, unsettling Clint from his perch and grabbed his arm. Bucky bit back the grin that threatened to dissolve into a laugh again and once composed, he pulled Clint towards him, bringing his free hand up to Clint’s jaw, tilting it just enough to not crash faces as their lips met again.

 _Oh, sweet Christmas_.

Bucky’s lips pressed hesitantly at first, but as Clint nudged forward to encourage him, Bucky pressed firmer into the kiss. Clint could feel a tremor in his chest and he cupped his hands on Bucky’s waist, pulling them closer together, and trying to memorise everything about this moment from the warmth of Bucky’s tongue to the scrape of stubble against his chin to the firm body that was now flush with his. The kiss ended slowly, with a gentle pull away and Clint eventually opened his eyes again see Bucky looking at him cautiously.

“Yeah, umm, that’s a lot more convincing.” Clint stammered, trying to be cool but melting inside as Bucky grinned at him.

….

 

It was late and the majority of the gala entertainment had already finished for the night and Clint’s brain swayed under the influence of that last glass of wine. Or was it the several before? Clint was sure he hadn’t had that much to drink, yet he was definitely feeling looser than his drink count should account for, unless it was on an empty stomach. What had he eaten today? Had he had anything to eat today? He’d been so nervous about the gala that he must have skipped lunch and now he was paying for it. _Dammit Barton. You’re not gonna screw this up! Game plan, remember? The night is almost over._ Properly admonished, he straightened the jacket of his borrowed suit and slunk over to the dwindling food table, grabbing a handful of miniature pastry looking things and took a glass from the non-alcoholic section while he waited for Bucky to get back from the restroom.

He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t ruin things for Bucky so he was going to sip on his ginger ale and (politely) scoff down the handful of hors d'oeuvres he had to try and soak up some of the alcohol in his system. The night had gone pretty well for Bucky, he was meeting people from all of the radio stations the corporation owned that he would have the chance to write for, and Clint had done his best to be the ideal trophy boyfriend. It was actually a lot easier than he’d expected, all he needed to do was look happy whenever Bucky looked his way and tell people how proud he was for Bucky’s new job, and hell, all of that was true. It seemed the only fake part of the “fake boyfriend” gig was just the “boyfriend” bit. Which, sadly, was the bit that Clint wished was the most true.

Clint caught sight of Bucky, who was currently caught in conversation with someone who had clearly had more to drink than Clint, and he sighed, popping the hors d'oeuvres into his mouth. The pastry things were flaky and dry on the outside but oozed some sort of nutty filling as soon as he bit down that cemented to his teeth and he swallowed what he could, trying to pry to rest away with his tongue.

As he was busy restraining his face from contorting as his tongue worked, he saw the young woman that had been in Bucky’s apartment cross the room and glance his way. He raised his glass to her offering a closed-lip smile, his teeth still smattered with pastry filling, and she quickly darted in the opposite direction. Other than the embarrassed introduction she’d had to make at the beginning of the night between Bucky, Clint and the radio executive who was clearly her boss, she’d kept her distance from the two of them. Clint was glad of that, not having to worry about accidentally contradicting anything he may have said to her when he fell from the balcony (because he really couldn’t remember anything that was said other than Bucky declaring that Clint was his boyfriend), but he did feel sorry for the kid too.

Finally Bucky made his way through the crowd to where he’d left Clint, mouthing _sorry_ and Clint  nodded, finally swallowing the last of the sticky filling and smiling at him.

“Looks like you’re popular.” Clint teased, casuing Bucky to roll his eyes.

“Please get me out of here before they pull out a piano.” Bucky said in a low voice, leaning against the bannister next to Clint.

“Had enough of the schmoozing?” Clint asked, laughing softly at the feel of the the word _schmoozing_ on his drunk tongue.

“I think I’ve schmoozed enough. Honestly, I’d rather be back at my place, watching Netflix.” Bucky admitted, unbuttoning his jacket and shifting to get comfortable. Clint watched as Bucky’s strong hands smoothed down the front of his shirt and Clint swallowed again, the alcohol in his system tempting to fuel all sorts of imaginings involving those hands that he was sure he’d remember later when he was back in his apartment, alone. He cleared his throat, pulling himself back to the now, and the gala hall filled with people he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of, and suddenly didn’t want to be around.

“Well, do you wanna go?” Clint offered, his voice feeling a little huskier than before, but he couldn’t tell if Bucky noticed. Bucky looked like he was about as intoxicated as Clint was, so hopefully had no idea that Clint had just been thinking of what he looked like without the suit.

“Hell, yes. Let’s get outta here.”

They deposited Clint’s unfinished ginger ale on the food table on their way out, and called an Uber from the street and Clint let the night air and the drive home cool him off.

Back at their building, they slowly climbed the stairs, leaning on each other by the time they got to Bucky’s floor, Clint with one more flight to go. He paused, trying to think of something to say that was somewhere between _goodnight_ and _I wish this was real_. Bucky interrupted his train of thought by leaning forward.

“You got a little…” Bucky reached over and brushed some stray pastry crumbs from the lapel of Clints jacket, but kept his hand resting on Clint’s chest, brushing his thumb back and forth across the grey fabric.

“You look good in my suit. Thank you for tonight.” he smiled at Clint, his head tipping forward and his hair fell over his face and Clint resisted the urge to reach out and tuck it behind Bucky’s ear.

“Game plan worked, right?” Clint said, in lieu of anything better to say and Bucky nodded, pushing his hair back.

“All that practise kissing for nothing.” Bucky laughed softly, and Clint froze as he tried to confirm what he thought he just heard.

_Was… that an invitation?_

The night and the alcohol and Bucky’s company and the way Bucky looked in that _suit,_ all drowned out any hesitation or better judgement in Clint’s mind and he acted on impulse, swaying forward, one hand cupping Bucky’s chin up and he kissed him with all he had.

The taste of ginger ale and pasty filling on his tongue mingled with the scent of wine and of something that he could only describe as _Bucky,_ and Bucky kissed him back and those hands Clint had been admiring were fisting in his hair and he pushed Bucky against the wall of the corridor and Bucky _let him._ Their bodies pressed together as they kissed each other hungrily, eventually breaking for air.

“Wait-” Bucky uttered and the word was like cold water down Clint’s spine. He pushed himself away, trying pull what self-control he still had together. _Oh shit, I just kissed him for real. This was only pretend for him._

“This was only pretend.” Clint whispered, his heart aching and a sob threatening to burst from his chest, and he ran off up the stairwell, not daring to looking back and see the pieces of the new friendship he’d just ruined with his pathetic crush. 

…...

 

Clint called in sick to work and spent the weekend in a self-indulgent pity party, and when Natasha came over a couple of days later he was still slouched on his couch, unshaved and unwashed. His arms were crossed tightly around a pillow and he was staring at nothing but the mess that was in his head when the cushion came sailing at him. It connected with the side of his head and he threw it on the ground, glaring at her but she stood her ground and glared back.

“ _Stop_ with this crap, Clint. It’s _not_ the end of the fucking world.”

 _Well it sure fucking feels like it._ Clint clenched his jaw and looked away. But Natasha was here to get him to talk and she stomped over and kicked his feet to get his attention.

“I _kissed_ him Nat!” He finally spat out.

“Yeah you did.” She said, her tone condescending to his internal anguish and he frowned, gesticulating wildly to emphasise his point.

“No! I _kissed_ him! Like full-on kissed, with mouths and _tongues_ , kissed him. With _no one around_ , against a _wall, kissed him!”_

“Mmm hmmm.” She hummed in the same sing-song tone as before and Clint grunted his annoyance at her.

“You don’t seem to understand!”

“No, I don’t.”

 _UGH!_ If she didn’t find anything more constructive to say Clint was sorely tempted to throw her out of his apartment, best friend be damned. She should _know_ what this means!

“Now he _knows_!”

“That you kissed him? I’m pretty sure he knew that when you did it-” she drawled sarcastically and Clint had had enough and kicked back at her.

“That I _like_ him! That I _want_ to kiss him, and pin him against walls and stuff!”

“ _And..?”_ she emphasised the word heavily, pushing him to admit the core of the problem.

“What if he _doesn’t_?”

“What if he _does_?” She asked pointedly but softer, and Clint didn’t reply. He just slumped further down into the couch, hugging the pillow tightly to his chest as he replayed what he could remember of the end of that night through his mind. Natasha sat down next to him and leaned her head against his shoulder in the closest approximation of a hug as she like to give, but not pushing the issue further. Because she knew him well enough to understand that maybe, just maybe, the idea of Bucky liking him back was a tad bit scarier than the idea of Bucky not liking him at all.

…..

He didn’t want to go to the rooftop party. Clint was quite happy in his brooding avoidance of all things neighbour related and he didn’t want to break that streak, but Steve had stopped him at the mailboxes earlier in the week, insisting that he come. Clint had only agreed as enthusiastically as he had because Bucky had come around the corner at that very moment and Clint didn’t want him to think that he was brooding or anything, so instead he’d smiled at Rogers and nodded happily until Bucky was gone and now he had to go to this stupid rooftop party. He sighed as he climbed the stairs and emerged into the light of the bright summer afternoon, the rooftop already crowded with most of the tenants.

Clint saw Bucky helping hold steady a keg while someone else operated the tap, and chose to go the other way to say hi to Steve. _Might as well start as he planned to continue_ , he thought as he ducked to the left, glad of the chance to hide in the crowd. But, true to form, luck was not on his side and he heard his name being called over the general hubbub.

“Barton! I thought you weren’t gonna make it!” Rogers waved from the barbeque stand.

 _Shit._ He had tried squeezing between the Carter’s deck chairs and the chimney vents, but clearly hadn’t been as stealthy as he thought and was now trapped against the metal railing. He waved awkwardly back, and he couldn’t help but glance towards the kegstand, his eyes meeting with Bucky’s who, of course had now seen him too. _Shit,_ he swore again, _guess I gotta face the music after all,_ and moved the finish his pass through the narrow gap, which is when he felt his pant leg catch on a rough edge of metal and tear as he tried to pull himself free. He looked down and saw that they’d torn from his pocket and halfway to his knee, nearly exposing his boxers, and there was a thin corresponding cut forming on his leg where the metal had scraped his skin. _Aww no. These are my best sweatpants_ , he whined, unhooking the fabric and smearing a line of blood onto his palm. He looked around at the several faces (Bucky and Steve’s included) that were eyeing his disgrace and he waved his bloody hand and tried to hold his pants closed while not completely dying of embarrassment.

“I’m just gonna go change…” he said to no one in particular and made for the stairs before he properly flashed anyone, annoyed that another pair of pants had fallen victim to what he was going to call the rooftop curse. _That’s it, next time I’m not wearing pants at all._

He heard a pair of footsteps on the stairs behind him but he didn’t bother to see who it was. With his bad luck it could only be Bucky, and sure enough, it was.

“You should tell him that you like him.”

_What?_

“What?” he echoed, stopping his awkward descent, turning to face the man he’d been avoiding for the better part of a fortnight.

“Rogers. You should tell him. I know that you like him.”

“What?” Clint repeated, completely lost. “ _Steve_? Why?”

Bucky sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his tidy black jeans. “I heard your friend at the last bbq, saying you should ask him out? And I saw how you were looking at him the other day when I went to get my mail. You should tell him. He… He’s a good guy. And he’d be lucky to have you.”

 _At the last bbq, Nat had been giving Clint grief about_ **_Bucky_ ** _, not Steve. But Bucky thought…_

 _OMG did Bucky think he liked Steve??_ Clint tried to think of any reason why Bucky might think that, but came up empty. Bucky had hovered a moment, but after no immediate response, he looked down at his feet and turned back to the roof entrance.

“I don’t like _Steve_.” Clint finally said, the confused yet firm statement cutting clearly through the quiet of the stairwell, and Bucky stopped and looked back down at him.

“But you…”

“I like _you_.” Clint said, praying to Lady Luck for a minute where he could clearly say what he felt and maybe, just maybe, have Bucky feel it back.

“It’s always been you, dude. Nat’s been trying to get me to ask you out for months now, but then you asked me to be your pretend boyfriend and I couldn’t say no. But it wasn’t pretend for me, and then I kissed you and I fucked it all up…” Clint stared at his feet, not sure he wanted to see what the look was on Bucky’s face after admitting all of that, and surely whatever luck he was borrowing had stretched enough for him, but then Bucky stopped him.

“It wasn’t pretend for me either.”

 _What?_ Clint stared at Bucky trying to tell if this was some kind of joke, but all he saw on his face was something that was a mix of honest, hurt and hopeful.

“I’ve liked you ever since I saw you spider-climb your way to Mrs Hurst’s window when we were locked out. But I when I overheard your friend say you liked someone, I don’t know, I guess I assumed it was Rogers because you were always smiling around him? That’s why I stopped you that night, I thought that if I dragged you into my apartment like I wanted, you’d wake up the next morning regretting it because you liked someone else.”

_Holy shit. He… likes me too. This it is, Barton. This is your moment._

Clint did a quick mental rehearsal of asking him on a date as he stepped towards Bucky, but in that moment the last of his luck ran out and the hole in his pant pocket caught on the lip of the handrail, dragging his pants down to his knees as he stepped up, revealing a shameful pair of red and white Target logo patterned satin boxers and Clint’s hairy unkempt knees.

“Aww no.” Clint groaned. “This cannot be story I tell when someone asks how I asked you out.”

He heard a suppressed snort of laughter, then felt Bucky’s hands on his shoulders and he looked up in those smiling eyes. “Then I’ll tell it.” Bucky said, kissing him. Clint leaned into it, his hands tugging on Bucky’s smooth leather jacket as they stood there, making out in the draft stairwell.

“Uh hem.” A throat cleared itself further down the stairwell and Bucky and Clint turned to the scrutiny of a handsome black man with a crew cut and a pair of very judgmental eyebrows that were doing a fair amount of judging them in that moment. Clint’s indignation raised at what those eyebrows were thinking, only to remember that his pants were down around his knees and, in actual fact, this probably looked really dodgy and worthy of such judgement. He pulled his waistband back up to his waist as dignified as he could manage and put on his best retail smile.

“Can we help you?”

The eyebrows raised higher, but the mouth betrayed an amused smirk. “I’m looking for Steve Rogers. I was told he would be on the roof.”

“You’re his fella, huh?” Clint clicked, remembering the photo that Steve had shown him earlier that week by the mailboxes. Bucky turned his head sharply, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Sam Wilson.” The newcomer said, nodding.  “And, I’m his fiance.”

“Steve is that way,” Clint pointed upward, “Just look for the barbeque. And, uh.. congratulations!”

“Yeah... you too.” Wilson said, that eyebrow/mouth smirk appearing again, his eyes flicking down as he passed them on the stair and exited to the roof, leaving them alone.

“So, about that date?” Bucky asked, but Clint cut him off with a finger to his lips.

“Pants first. Then, a date.”


End file.
